


Red Velvet Lines the Black Box

by walkwithursus



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Existential Crisis, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Other, Resurrection, Robot!Charles, Wakes & Funerals, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: Deep within the bowels of a lockdown medical facility, Charles watches the disaster that is his own funeral broadcast on live TV.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	Red Velvet Lines the Black Box

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this fic for like two years and finally decided to just publish it. Please enjoy.

Dying was the greatest failure of Charles’ life. 

It outranked every mistake, every error and oversight he’d ever made up till that point, including the big ones. The largest avoidable slaughters in concert history and the greatest financial setbacks paled in comparison to this great defeat, and in some ways Charles didn’t think he’d ever get over it. 

At least, not emotionally. Physically, he would probably be fine. 

It had taken hours of surgery and the employment of at least a dozen specialists and researchers on the cutting edge of biotechnology to piece him back together, but in only a few short days they had made significant progress. Charles had had the foresight to buy the allegiance of these men and women years ago as a fail-safe, writing off a monthly chunk of change to keep their projects fully funded, their mortgages paid, and for nearly half a decade that was that. For five years Charles had enjoyed the luxury of not needing them, of delegating their reviews and contract renewals to lesser management, and had been content to know in the back of his mind that their purpose was fulfilled. Their existence was just another safety net, another _just in case,_ as with so many other side projects. 

He couldn’t have known then that he would be meeting these people again a few years down the line and short his dignity. He’d have liked to go about it the proper way; a handshake over the desk, or over a white linen tablecloth, seeing as these associates were more of the wine-and-dine variety. Instead, Charles had to content himself to groan in front of them, to bleed and shit and vomit in front of them. If he’d thought that dying had been humiliating, he’d had no idea what was waiting in store for him upon revival. 

A doctor approached the examination table Charles was seated on and rapped on his skull, or rather the new titanium plate just under his sutured scalp. The surgeons had said it was military grade, a state of the art new cranium far stronger than the brittle bone that had cracked before, embedding shards into the grey matter of his brain that had taken hours to pick out. 

“Any pain?” 

Charles shook his head. There was a stethoscope on his upper back, slipped under the cotton gown, and he was breathing in and out with care. In through the nose, out through the mouth, nose then mouth, until the cold surface of the stethoscope was removed. A new doctor swooped in, and Charles recognized him as the gastroenterologist.

“How’s the eating? Keeping anything down?” The old man plucked at the hospital gown covering Charles’ stomach and peered beneath at the plastic cap of the G-Tube. Charles shook his head again. 

“Sometimes water.” 

“That’s still progress.” A warm hand on the shoulder eased him back on the examination table. Thin fingers probed his abdomen, seeking out the transplanted intestines and applying pressure. Two firm fingers prodded his new duodenum. “Pain?” There was none. “Good. Swelling seems to be going down. Incision site looks normal. Is it itching much? Good, good, that means it’s healing.” 

“Sire?” 

A deep, familiar voice. Charles hummed in acknowledgement and craned his neck toward the doorway, where a hooded figure spoke. 

“The funeral service has just begun. International broadcast begins in five.”

“Everything accounted for?” 

“Security is on standby. Dethcopter One is prepped and ready for emergency take-off.”

“Good,” Charles said, and then to the physician on his left, “how much longer is this going to take?”

“We’ve got a ways to go still with your EKG,” said the woman, not unkindly, as she opened the flimsy velcro front of his gown. There was a tube in her fist, a bright blue bottle labeled _Spectra 360 Electrode Gel._ Charles watched as she uncapped the tube and spread a cold glob across his chest, carefully avoiding the puckered sternal zipper hidden beneath a stack of gauze and tape. Even under the bandage he could feel the wound gaping open and throbbing, red meat wrongly exposed to the world. If he’d understood the procedure correctly, little more than surgery staples were holding his chest together. Her hand ghosted close to the wound, skimming the gauze, but he did not flinch. 

“Dr. Rad is prepping next door for your MRI. We can stream the broadcast in here, if you’d like.” She gestured with a hand toward the plasma screen on the wall opposite the examination table, where a grey and black human X-Ray was currently displayed. Charles’ X-Ray. Strange that where the heart and lungs should be, the machines inside him showed up blinding white. Replacements, the machinist had said, for the vital organs they hadn’t been able to salvage, where the necrosis had been too advanced for donor tissue. 

“That’s not necessary,” Charles said. The Klokateers were more than capable of providing him with updates and need-to-know information. 

“Nonsense, it’s no trouble. Dr. Majumdar, are you finished with that screen?” she called. The young woman standing beneath glanced up and nodded, making a mark on the hefty chart in her arms. Charles glanced at the Klokateer on guard, whose head was bowed deferentially, awaiting Offdensen’s go-ahead to stream the broadcast.

Charles had not planned to watch the service. With everything going on, the fact that they were even having one had slipped his mind until that morning, so there had been no time budgeted in the day’s schedule to allow for it. He had been okay with this. After all, it was quite a decision, whether or not to watch one's own funeral. A choice he’d rather not have to make, if he were honest with himself. The thought of witnessing his own coffin lowered into the ground, or more likely watching his pyre burn, was simultaneously both tempting and abhorrent. The image turned his stomach, and yet Charles could not quell the morbid curiosity, the sick desire to witness the event in all its splendid, terrible glory.

And it would be good to see the boys, a voice reminded him. A comfort to know that they were managing to feed and clothe and care for themselves without his constant supervision. He was prepared for the worst, of course, for them to look a little hungry, a little dirty on the TV. But everyone looked worse on camera, Dethklok especially, and the important thing was that they were alive, surviving, as Charles was. Though of course they couldn’t know that. The only people with security clearance high enough to know of Charles’ continued existence were in this lockdown facility, and a portion of them would be dead by the time all was said and done. 

It wasn’t entirely fair, of course, that Charles should be able to see Dethklok and know they survived, without them being able to do so in return. But like so many other things, the deceit was a necessary evil he could live with. Because nothing about this was fair, and given the task that lay before him now, the mission Charles was about to embark on, there was a possibility this viewing would be his last. Charles had never been one to waste an opportunity. With a grimace of effort, he signaled to the Klokateer by the door. 

“Stream it.”

The giant X-Ray of Charles’ chest cavity disappeared, and quite suddenly he found himself staring at a black screen, reflecting back the crowded examination room; a body on a silver table surrounded by many white coats. Charles avoided staring too long at the reflection of his face, at the puffy, purple eyelids pooled with dead blood and the fat, taped up nose in between. He’d seen enough orbital fractures to last a lifetime, doled out more than his fair share, so he knew what he looked like with them. He didn’t need to see it again on an older face, a longer face, a face better left in obscurity. 

A few minutes passed in oblivion. The instant the screen lit Charles’ eyes slid into focus, and he counted rapidly, habitually: 

_One-two-three-four-five._

Five men. Five familiar faces. Charles released a deep, full exhale, and felt as though at last he could breathe right again, as though he’d been holding his breath since he’d parted with them at Mordhaus not two weeks ago. The pulmonologist heard the sigh, said, “careful, now,” but his lungs were fine. Better than fine, now that he knew. Now that he saw. 

Nathan consumed the screen, a hulking shape behind a mahogany podium, clutching a single sheet of notebook paper in two giant hands and squinting down as though he’d forgotten how to read. Charles itched to send a team to track the front man’s glasses down, to get them up there and on his face, but that would be impossible, now, and he quickly swallowed the urge like a bitter pill. 

_“ - and uh... I’m sorry we forgot your birthday last year, and I guess uh… I think we forgot it the year before that, too. But it wasn’t my fault, it… was Toki’s fault, anyway, I guess it doesn’t really matter, now.”_

Off-screen, a squeaky whisper, _“...motherfucker…”_

The service had already begun. The shot zoomed out to reveal the platform the boys were standing on, a wide stage with shiny, polished wood floors and a backdrop of thick velvet curtains. Standing sprays of black blossoms surrounded a blown up picture of himself on an easel just to the left of the podium, looking far too serious. Murderface, Skwisgaar, Toki and Pickles stood to Nathan’s right, all of them dressed in the neat black suits they usually wore to industry parties. Fire-retardant, stitched with weightless Kevlar. Good. 

_“Anyway, you were a good manager. And now, uh, you’re gone. Dead, I mean.”_

Charles could feel Nathan’s voice in his chest, that rumbling, deep-body feeling like standing too close to one of the enormous KRANK speakers at a show. The big man stopped reading and took a step back from the podium. 

_“You know what? Fuck this. I’m over it,”_ Nathan said, and he tore his paper in half, crumpling the pieces in his fists and throwing them onto the wooden floor of the stage. The shot widened in time to catch the other boys following suit, Toki ripping through his stack of note sheets like a phonebook. A squat, pasty man, presumably the funeral director, rushed to the podium and angled the mic toward his considerably shorter frame. _“Uh, speaking next!”_ he squeaked, as Nathan wrestled with him for control of the mic. _“We have CEO… CEO of Crystal Mountain… CRYSTAL MOUNTAIN Records uh, Mr. Roy Cornickelson — ”_

 _“No!”_ Nathan jerked so hard on the body of the microphone that it detached from its base on the podium, streaming wires. The others onstage clapped hands over their ears as the speakers crackled and whined, and Charles winced. _“No more eulogies — NO MORE. If you put your hands on me one more time — !”_ The director backed off and Toki appeared at Nathan’s side, squealing over his arm into the microphone.

_“Yeah! Eulogies ams for pussies!”_

_“Can we jus’... burn the body, already?”_ Pickles hiccupped off-mic, and Charles noticed for the first time that Skwisgaar and Murderface were heavily supporting him on either side. The funeral director looked around wildly, and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. 

_“We still have to prepare the pyre.”_

_“Then do it. **Go!** What are you waiting for?”_ Nathan barked.

There was a scrambling on stage, Klokateers hurriedly replacing the microphone and sweeping bits of torn paper from the floor before the screen cut to a photograph; a young Charles shaking hands with the Dean at his Harvard graduation. A woman’s voice began a narration:

_“Charles Foster Offdensen, manager, lawyer and CFO of international death metal band Dethklok passed away unexpectedly last week. Details involving his death have not been released to the public, and at this time the band has asked for privacy. Guests from around the globe have gathered to pay their respects, including former United States President Jimmy Carter and Nobel Peace Prize Winner Nelson Mandela.”_

The cardiologist was applying electrodes to his chest, and Charles realized that the room around him had been paused, watching and listening to the broadcast before it had cut off. The TV played a clip of Charles’ casket being removed from the hearse by a team of Klokateers in hooded suits, and Charles’ focus drifted to the steady thumping of his heart beat on the EKG. 

Or, not his heart, exactly — the machine, the Pacemaker 2.0, whatever they had named the infernal thing stuck in the hollow of his chest. Charles tried not to think about it much, because of all the modifications, all the improvements they had made upon his body, that was the one that bothered him the most. 

After what seemed like hours the screen cut back to the funeral, and for the first time Charles realized it was taking place on Mordhaus’ grounds. He hadn’t asked for details about the service and the Klokateers hadn’t volunteered any, but the figurehead of the stone dragon was unmistakable silhouetted against the blue-black sky. 

The stage was farther away in the shot now. Below it, an enormous funeral pyre had been constructed with a handsome casket at its center. Surrounding the casket were five torches, lit and held aloft in iron stands. One for each of the boys, Charles presumed, who stood in a huddle to one side as the priest spoke at length on the other. A Catholic viking funeral for an undead man. Charles might have laughed. 

The shot panned out over the attendance, a smattering of indistinguishable mourners clad all in black. There were no chairs, Charles noticed regretfully, and so everyone was forced to stand. Poor taste, considering the length of the service, but along with everything else that was out of his hands now. Behind the mourners, Charles caught a glimpse of what looked to be a field of black flowers, swaying gently in the breeze. That space had been empty upon his departure, and as he squinted in an effort to bring the details into focus he almost wished he hadn’t. Scores of Klokateers in organized rows materialized on screen, standing at attention as the service droned on. If he’d had a heart, it might have sunk then. 

The camera feed switched to a close-up of the priest’s face, for which Charles was grateful. 

_“We are gathered here now with those who were closest to him in life, and it is these men who will return his body to the Earth from whence it came. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, Toki Wartooth, Pickles the Drummer, Willhelm Murderface — ”_

_“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. You can pronounce Schkwisgaar Schkwigelf but William is too hard for you?”_

_“Shh, Murderface!”_

_“I-It was a simple mistake, I’m sorry.”_

_“Oh, you’re schorry? You’re schorry? Well good, that makes everything better! Did you hear that guys? This wrinkly piece of dog schit can’t get my name right, but oh, at least he’s schorry!”_

The pasty man from before appeared at Murderface’s side to hiss: 

_“Mr. Murderface, please, control yourself! You don’t want to disrespect Mr. Offdensen’s memory with your behavior - “_

The man cut off abruptly as Murderface’s fist collided with his nose, issuing a spray of blood so violent it struck the lens of the camera. With a cry of pain the injured man reeled back, just as Murderface whirled around and lunged for the priest’s throat. There were shouts of alarm from the mourners as he shook the old man back and forth, fat bassist’s fingers digging into his windpipe. 

_“You schon of a bitch! I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll KILL YOU.”_

For a long moment it seemed as though Murderface would make good on that promise as no one moved to intervene. Suddenly a voice rose above the crowd like nails down a chalkboard, unmistakable given the sheer number of voicemails Charles had listened to over the years: 

_“William! Let go of him right this instant!!”_

Stella Murderface emerged from the crowd atop her Rascal scooter, motoring straight for her grandson with Thunderbolt in tow. Murderface glanced over his shoulder, saw her approach and ordered:

_“Keep that demon away from me!”_

_“William, that man is a servant of the Lord! Unhand him right now!”_ she screeched. 

A swarm of Klokateers quickly blocked her path, but Stella did not slow, crashing through their ranks with a warbling, high pitched cry of fury. As her Rascal closed in on Murderface and the priest she passed beside the casket, and Charles watched mutely as the back right tire of Thunderbolt’s wagon caught on a stray wire, sending one of the torch stands careening in slow motion toward the pyre. No, not a wire — a black hose, connecting each of the gas torches to a propane tank near the stage, all connected, all falling. 

The pyre erupted in gold flame, towering head and shoulders above the mourners. A few faceless individuals began running from the blaze, only to be struck down by enormous sparks and chunks of burning wood debris. 

The camera was zigging and zagging, unable to focus with all the commotion. For a brief moment Toki’s crazed expression became visible before he threw himself bodily into the brawl, leaping onto the Priest’s back as Murderface kicked him repeatedly in the balls. The shot panned and zoomed to the rest of the band, locked in a tearful three-way embrace. They were soon interrupted by the pasty funeral director from earlier, who came up and patted Nathan’s hulking shoulder with a meaty palm, his other hand clutching a handkerchief over his bleeding nose. 

_“He’d ind a bedder plade, now, Mr. Explosion - “_

The sentence went unfinished. Nathan’s right hook sent the funeral director sprawling, and Charles’ own broken fingers twinged with sympathy. 

_“Yeeuh, get’m Nate!”_ Pickles cheered as a group of people struggled to restrain him. Upon closer inspection it appeared to be Pickles’ family trying to protect him, or more likely trying to spare themselves the shame of the stereotypically Irish funeral brawl. The camera swerved again, and by the time it focused back Pickles had ripped a flask from the inside of his suit jacket and was beating his brother Seth in the head with it, over and over and over. 

As he watched, the picture on the screen grew wavy and distorted, and with a jolt Charles realized the air around the pyre had become saturated with fumes. Before he could so much as blink, the propane tank exploded near the casket, sending half a dozen bodies flying into the air. When the smoke finally cleared the shot was filled with gore and viscera, half-charred remains and a few survivors crawling for safety. Moaning voices and crackling flames echoed through the tiny exam room from the television speakers before the screen flickered and went black. 

Moments later the picture returned as the station began replaying Murderface’s eulogy with a voice over. Charles unclenched his fists, stiff from being held in one position for so long, and tried to breathe.

Once more, the room around him seemed to come back to life. Someone was pulling the electrodes from his chest, snagging at the newly regrown hairs that had just begun to creep back from when they’d shaved him down prior to surgery. 

“EKG looks healthy. No irregularities,” said a female voice close to Charles’ ear. 

Charles tore his eyes away from the screen and gave the cardiologist an absent nod before glancing sharply at the Klokateer beside the door. The hood nodded and disappeared just as a new doctor arrived with a clipboard. 

“Good morning. Remember me? I’m Dr. Stapleton, I led the team that designed your Neural Network. How are we feeling today?” 

“Fine,” Charles managed.

“Good, good, well I’m just going to ask you a few questions and then I’ll get out of your hair,” the man continued, and he clicked a ballpoint pen into action and cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s see here. Have you noticed any changes in your energy level since the operation? Differences in your sleep pattern, stamina?” 

Charles’ head was spinning. He tried to focus and remember what had just been asked of him. “I ah, believe so.”

“Uh huh. If you had to rate your stamina before surgery out of ten, what would you say?” 

“Nine.”

“And now?”

Charles thought a moment. “Can I go higher than ten?”

There was a course of laughter from the sea of faces around the room. Charles smiled tightly. 

“That’s excellent. Exactly what we want to hear,” said the man with the clipboard, patting Charles on his medi-socked foot. “I’ll bet you’re not sleeping every night anymore, either.”

“Not really,” Charles admitted. “Only an hour or two every other day or so.”

“Perfect. That’s only going to get better with time. You’ll probably continue sleeping a few times a week while your body is healing from surgery, but once you’re fully recovered I expect you’ll only need one, two hours a week tops.”

Charles nodded. He had actually found the lack of sleep rather frustrating thus far. Not being able to sleep through the healing process meant that he spent the majority of his time lying awake, cut off from the Klok and unable to perform even the most menial of tasks. Perhaps he’d be able to appreciate it when there were things he could do to occupy his time, but for now he was less than enthused. 

The Klokateer from earlier reappeared in the doorway just as Charles finished shaking the doctor’s hand. Charles zeroed in on him. 

“Well?”

“All band members accounted for on Dethcopter One. No injuries to report, but Dr. Wyrm is standing by. The families were evacuated by a special ops team onto the Dethsub.”

“Where are they headed?”

“The Dethpilot has orders to perform a safety cruise until the fire has been put out and a perimeter can be secured. IST #12 is doing a sweep now. Once they’ve received the all clear the families will be escorted back to the airport and the band will be returned to Mordhaus.”

A familiar wave of relief washed over Charles, and he sagged back against the flat hospital pillow at his back. 

“Thank you. That’s all for now.” 

The Klokateer bowed as they were dismissed, and Charles reluctantly returned his attention back to the broadcast. The service was over, the boys were safe and far away, and yet he couldn’t resist the temptation to stare at the screen, now showing a blown up image of himself beside the band at a press event; sandwiched between Toki and Pickles, unsmiling. It was like that old expression, the car accident so terrible it’s impossible to look away from no matter how badly one may want to. At least the TV had been muted so he didn’t have to hear it anymore. 

Now that it was over, Charles was beginning to wish he hadn’t watched the broadcast at all. Witnessing the boys go through an emergency without him present had been more difficult than he'd anticipated, and Charles was now left to contend with a heavy, squirming pain in his gut that had nothing to do with his injuries. He tried to remind himself that it was good to know that they could manage without him, that the empire he’d created could sustain them if necessary. After all, that meant he’d done his job properly. On the off-chance that something happened to him, Charles had left a fail-safe, a security net, an army that would lay down their lives to protect the Klok, just as he had done. There was some small comfort to be taken in that. 

Breaking him out of his thoughts was a knock on the open door to the exam room.

“Charles?” A woman in green surgical scrubs poked her head in the room. “We’re ready for you next door.”

“We’ll wheel him in,” one of the nurses replied.

Gentle hands encouraged Charles to lie back on the gurney, and he did so carefully until his eyes faced straight up at the ceiling. He turned his neck in time to see the broadcast on the TV switch off and the shadowy image of his X-Ray take its place. It was difficult to say which was worse to look at, but at this point Charles imagined the blank white walls on the inside of the MRI machine would be a blessing. 

If only he could stop replaying the funeral in his own head before then. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was my unofficial WWE crossover featuring Paul Bearer as the funeral director.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments greatly appreciated.


End file.
